States of Passion

by Nihad Sirees

  “Joyful, chattering, giggling and singing, some leant against one another and others clung to the woman next to them. They flirted with their girlfriends, affirming their affection. When the attendant opened the door, Suad and her two friends appeared, and the hammam sprang to life with ululations, the mood becoming more and more excited. These three women took up their designated place next to their friend Bahiya, the heavy-set oud player who had arrived there before them and started to play a medley in the style of Ali Darwish. The women all knew that the time had come for Khojah Bahira to arrive with her fresh discovery. All eyes were staring at the door. It was only a matter of minutes before the door swung open and Khojah Bahira swept in holding Widad’s hand.

  “What happened was more like magic than reality. Suddenly all the idle chatter ceased, the musicians stopped playing, and not a sound could be heard. Everyone watched the two women as they strode towards their designated spot, which was adorned with roses and furnished with satin. It never occurred to the women to cheer. They just stood there, frozen. It was simple: all eyes were locked on Widad’s extremely sweet face, which exuded youth and innocence.

  “Seeing confusion in the eyes of all the women present, Khojah Bahira felt the thrill of victory. Silence was an even surer sign of her success. Meanwhile, Widad shyly watched what was going on. It was the first time her beauty was being put on display before women who were experts in matters of female beauty: the banat al-ishreh have a greater passion for women’s beauty than men; they celebrate and lust after a beautiful woman. She took strength from Suad’s eyes and her smile, letting go of her embarrassment entirely. When the two of them sat down in their special place, like a bride and groom, Khojah Bahira lifted her hand, signalling for Suad to strike up the music. At that moment the women returned to their senses and began chattering once again.

  “They cheered the music enthusiastically as it began again, applauding at every opportunity. Then Raheel stood up and approached Bahira and Widad, kissed them both, showered them with blessings, and, standing in the middle of the room, started to dance. She wanted to demonstrate her friendship for her old ablaya in spite of everything that had happened; also for simple Widad, who couldn’t be faulted for having taken her spot in Bahira’s bed. Raheel danced joyfully. Bahira silently watched her dance, holding Widad’s hand.

  “After leaving Bahira’s, Raheel had joined Khojah Samah’s group. She started dancing at parties organised by her new Khojah. Samah invited her to live in her house in the al-Jumayliyya neighbourhood near the train station. Samah dumped her ablaya as soon as Raheel arrived to replace her in the beautiful Khojah’s bedroom. Nobody ever shed a tear for women who dumped each other like that. It was like a little light sweeping. Anyone could take another’s spot in those ablayas’ lives, their bedrooms and their families. The whole thing wasn’t much more than temporary jealousy, which would dissipate as soon as the jilted lover became involved in a new passion. When Raheel became Samah’s ablaya she told her all about Widad and how beautiful she was. For some strange reason Raheel didn’t detest Widad; she would talk about her and her beauty with admiration. And because Samah was one of Bahira’s fiercest rivals, she asked Raheel all about Widad: whom did she look like, what did she look like, what colour were her hair and her eyes, how did she walk, what were her talents? And so on and so forth. She was so consumed by curiosity that she even dreamt about a young lady who looked like Widad. This all took place without Raheel becoming envious at all. When the invitation to the hammam came from Khojah Bahira, Samah was delighted because it would afford her the opportunity to meet Widad face to face. To be clear, let me just say that Raheel did feel some passing jealousy when she saw Samah scrutinising Widad with her discerning eyes. At that point some of the guests cast inquisitive glances at Raheel because they realised that Widad had taken her place with Bahira. Which is why, as I said, she got up and congratulated the two women before proceeding to dance.

  “In such an atmosphere, Khojah Samah had to be on her best behaviour. She had won Raheel but now felt jealous that her ex-lover now had a more beautiful ablaya than her. She stood up and wrapped the towel around her beautiful womanly body once again. She had been reclining in her seat, having loosened the towel to reveal her milky-white breasts and thighs, exposing herself at one and the same time to Widad and Raheel, who by that point was dancing seductively. Samah picked up the bag she had brought with her and walked back towards her ex-lover’s group. Samah’s movement got the women all riled up. Her stories with Bahira were legendary. She climbed up on the dais and kissed Bahira on the cheeks and embraced her with exaggerated affection, before sending Widad a powerful glance.

  “‘I’m Khojah Samah,’ she said. ‘Maybe you’ve heard of me, maybe you haven’t. Whatever the case, you’ll be hearing a lot about me from this day forward. Let me give you a kiss.’

  “After planting this kiss on her, she embraced her, trying to pull Widad’s body closer, kissing her on the neck and then moving away. This all took place within earshot and in view of Khojah Bahira and the other guests. Widad’s face turned beet-red as she looked over at Bahira, who winked at her to indicate that everything was fine. Samah opened her small purse, pulled out a gold necklace encrusted with emeralds, and held it up high for everyone to see. At that point she came up behind Widad and fastened it around her neck. She congratulated them both and then stepped off the dais and returned to her seat.

  “Raheel watched Samah overstepping the boundaries. Supposedly they were there to celebrate Widad and Bahira in the forthright announcement of their relationship, an event meant to warn other women against getting involved with either of those two ablayas from that day forward. The women were chatting loudly in overlapping conversations about what they had seen when Samah brushed past Raheel. Now the audience’s attention turned towards them as they awaited Raheel’s reaction. Jealousy among the banat al-ishreh was lethal. Raheel continued her mysterious dance as she crossed the distance to her ablaya and started to undulate in front of her. Her body was twisting like a snake, her arms waving like those of an octopus. Her upper body leant in, as if she were about to pounce, as if she wanted to sting her. Samah was standing upright, hands on her hips. She could feel Raheel’s jealousy, took pleasure in it. Things went on like this between the two of them for a while. Then what happened, you ask? All the women were in suspense about what Samah might do to her ablaya. She pulled her in close, planting a long kiss on her lips that slowed down her mysterious dance. The women cheered for a long time. Samah eventually peeled herself away from Raheel and guided her back to their dais.

  “Then the mood started to heat up. The band was playing a dance number by Sayyid Darwish, and lots of women stepped away from their girlfriends to dance alongside the band. Samah and Raheel had stirred up desire among the women. They stopped caring about what was going on as each became more interested in her girlfriend, either dancing for her or else caressing and kissing her. Bahira noticed that the women’s attention had shifted away from her and Widad. There was now more than one dancer on the floor, so she flashed Suad a signal to stop playing for a few minutes, and this made the women stop what they had been doing. Bahira whispered something in Widad’s ear, then stood and went down to the living room. The group went back to playing, ‘I Never Meant to Hurt You/Why’d You Leave Me?’ by Mohammed Abdel Wahab. Widad knew that song well from living in Bahira’s house. She knew how to dance to its rhythm properly. But then she started moving in a way that could not be described as dancing. It was more like movements that thrilled the heart with their tenderness and affection. The women froze and followed every move she made, every flick of her eyes. She was a bashful angel, as soft as a breeze. The resounding music drowned out the cries escaping the women’s mouths despite all their attempts to control themselves.

  “The hammam party continued well into the evening. Bahira sang a few odes to Widad. Then Samah sang a bawdy song. They ate and they drank, they sang, they danced and they ululated. Then they
competed to be first to present Widad with their gifts. On that one day she took possession of gold necklaces and rings as well as Ottoman and French coins, which catapulted her to the ranks of the elite.”

  When we heard the thud of the storm door as it closed, the old man fell silent. Ismail was back from his imaginary errand to get in touch with my family. The old man clammed up because he knew full well that Ismail was dead set against his telling the story, which is to say: the old man was now colluding with me in order to satisfy my desire to hear it. I didn’t tell him about what had happened the night before, how Ismail had threatened me and asked me to leave. I didn’t want to spoil their relationship. It would have fallen entirely on me to find a solution to any bad blood between them.

  We heard light footsteps, then the living-room door opened and Ismail walked in. He was sopping wet from head to toe. I had seen him standing out in the rain so that he could convince the old man that he had actually gone to a nearby village to call my family. I already knew the outcome of his errand in advance. Ismail glared at me resentfully. Because he was making a puddle on the floor, he stood away from the rug so it wouldn’t get wet. The old man lifted his eyes, waiting to find out what happened.

  “Nobody picked up,” Ismail said in a scornful voice. “I went to all that trouble for nothing.”

  “What do you mean ‘nobody picked up’?” the old man asked, looking at me and then looking at him. “You should have tried calling more than once.”

  “I tried twenty times. The rain must have knocked out the phone lines.”

  A convincing argument. The old man nodded and then asked me:

  “You should have given Ismail your address so he could send a telegram.”

  “You’re right, my good sir. That never occurred to me.”

  I glanced at Ismail, whose displeased eyes were staring back at me. I spontaneously tried to reassure the old man.

  “Tomorrow I’ll go with Brother Ismail to do whatever has to be done.”

  Ismail was none too pleased with the idea.

  “I’ll get lunch started,” he said, casting another spiteful glare my way before turning to leave.

  Once Ismail was gone, the old man said, “Ismail has a good heart. Don’t take it personally if he seems not to like you. He doesn’t care for strangers much. I don’t know why exactly, but I can assure you, he’s harmless.”

  “He knows you’re still telling me the story. That’s just provoking him.”

  “Let’s keep our voices down until lunch is ready.”

  “Khojah Bahira started receiving lots of invitations to host weddings and private parties. All the women in the city heard about her after the hammam party, and it seemed as though every last one wanted to see Widad. The women believed she had become the sole property of Khojah Bahira ever since it was announced that she was her ablaya. But it didn’t prevent them from watching her perform and appreciating her beauty. This was why they fell over themselves to invite the pair to their homes, whether for coffee, a party or simply to participate in other gatherings of the banat al-ishreh like the one at the Balaban hammam.

  “Bahira begged off invitations to visit other people’s homes. Nobody knew why. I would venture to guess that at first she didn’t want Widad to get a look at her friends’ houses. She wanted her to be familiar with only one house in the city: hers, in the Farafrah neighbourhood. She had brought her into the music group as a dancer, and Widad began accompanying her to weddings where Bahira would sing and Widad would dance. The women of the city had become accustomed to dancers wearing special costumes. Widad would wear a long, frilly white silk dress that extended down to her ankles, and the frills would glide along her shapely body, sending the women’s hearts aflutter. It was as if they were seeing a brand-new kind of dance for the very first time. To be honest, none of them were interested in dance or its technical aspects when Widad was dancing. She hypnotised them with a mysterious and unfamiliar power, which was actually a sort of vulnerability mixed with grace and sweetness. The movements were often barely more than her body folding and vibrating to the rhythm, and stroking her temple with her finger as she held the back of her hand with her other hand. When Bahira asked Widad to descend from the dais to move closer to the women, they could really appreciate Widad’s sweetness and exceptional grace, her shy smile and rosy face.

  “When the groom showed up, the dancer would strut ahead of him and guide him to where his bride would be seated, although she would often hop up to get him herself. Widad found the whole performance quite taxing. She wasn’t accustomed to dancing in front of men. But from that point on she had to participate in the wedding when it was time for the groom and bride to leave together. From the first wedding party at the Orange Café, it was clear that all the women had fallen under Widad’s spell, so much so that some would completely forget to ululate. Everything was going very well. Widad loved it, and became ever more rapt in her dancing. Once she leant in close to her Khojah and whispered how much she loved weddings, how much she loved dancing at them. Just then voices rang out announcing the arrival of the groom. This caused quite a commotion throughout the room as most of the women, apart from the groom’s mother and sisters, of course, hurried to put on their headscarves. Widad stopped dancing and sat down to watch it all. This was her first time at an Aleppo wedding. The groom’s mother asked Bahira to have Widad dance for her son when he got there, but Widad refused out of modesty. To show she was serious, she stood by the living-room door, watching as the ululations reached a deafening volume. The groom was an eighteen-year-old boy with a pencil-thin moustache. He arrived in a daze, reeking of sweat: his friends had got him drunk. Widad began walking ahead of him, guiding him towards the bride, whose female relatives had all refused to come down and greet him, when her foot slipped from embarrassment and lack of familiarity. She might have taken a tumble had it not been for the groom’s steadying hand. But then, woozy from all the drinking, he fell down and took her with him. All the women rushed over to pick him up along with Widad, who danced away from them, weeping. He followed after her and for some unknown reason tried to get hold of her again. But Bahira, who had stopped singing, blocked his path. Suad managed to guide Widad into the other room so she could cry in private.

  “The women needed to calm the Khojah and apologise to her if they were going to keep her and her band from walking out on the wedding. As they all tried to seat the tipsy groom next to his bride, ululations began to ring out once more. But a row had already broken out between the groom’s and the bride’s families because of the young man’s lack of decorum. The groom’s family chided the girl for her failure to get up and welcome the groom even as the bride’s family expressed their annoyance at the groom’s immature behaviour. The hubbub escalated into a heated argument. On both sides, women with cooler heads tried to calm things down as they got closer to insults. A few members of the groom’s family continued cheering, and an unassuming woman from the bride’s family shouted at them:

  “‘What’s going on here? Are you ladies celebrating the fact that your boy is smashed tonight?’

  “Those words detonated like a grenade in that atmosphere. The groom’s family exploded in anger, and a fight erupted after one woman pulled another’s hair. Things deteriorated quickly into slapping and biting. Some of the gold jewellery on the brawling women went flying. Khojah Bahira tried singing at the top of her lungs to calm the situation but the women paid no attention. They kept on fighting or joined in if they hadn’t already. Just then the mother of the bride jumped up on the dais and grabbed her daughter by the hand to announce that the wedding had been cancelled: her daughter wasn’t ready to get married. Then the bride’s aunt stood up and slapped the tipsy groom square in the face. The women stormed out of the hall, followed by their relatives.”

  I laughed long and hard as I contemplated these events. The old man let me laugh even as a smile flickered on his lips. In a good mood, I asked him:

  “Widad must have been mortified th
at evening, right?”

  “Very much so, but once they got back to the house, Suad and Bahira made her feel much better. The Khojah promised she would never make her dance in front of a groom again. Bahira cared about Widad more than anything else, so she made an arrangement with a professional dancer named Malak, who would perform whenever a groom was present, and would take care of the wedding party festivities for both bride and groom.”

  “I would think that Widad’s unusual dance couldn’t totally spoil the mood of wedding parties.”

  “That’s true. The impact of her dance, which immersed you in sweetness and light, couldn’t be fully appreciated without paying close attention. She required participation and harmony. Khojah Bahira was clever enough to know that the mayhem caused by the groom’s entrance and the accompanying whirlwind of ululations called for a professional and more traditional dance.”

  “She didn’t offer the job to Raheel?”

  “She knew Raheel would have said no anyway. As I mentioned, she had started working for Khojah Samah, and since she was a jilted ablaya, she would have refused no matter what.”

  “Did Widad see any other fights?”

  “Fights were always breaking out at weddings. But as you know, one shouldn’t get the impression that our weddings are nothing but disagreements and fights. Anyone who works weddings, though, is bound to come across them.”

  “Of course, I understand, old man…”

  “Widad would dance until the groom arrived. When he showed up, she would sit down to watch as Malak the hired dancer emerged and put on her show, always decked out in her traditional costume. This solution satisfied everyone, including the wedding organisers. Malak did a fine job performing her duties. Widad would watch the other women hurriedly throw on their veils to conceal their semi-nudity, which would otherwise be revealed in their wedding clothes. The groom would peek through the living-room door until he made his entrance. Malak would dance her way in front of him, through the storms of cheering, all the way to her seat. The young women then started dancing—weddings were an opportunity for single women to strut their stuff in front of the mothers of the bride and groom who were hosting the reception. But things didn’t always go according to plan. Simply put, Widad became quite familiar with a lot of noise as well.